


Worth Your Weight

by stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:29:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28811967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: Charles overhears and interesting argument between the Corporal and the Captain.
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Kudos: 14





	Worth Your Weight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stregatrek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stregatrek/gifts).



Charles Emerson Winchester III is convinced that he is fated to dwell with the two loudest and most obnoxious men in Korea. So, when he makes his way to the showers and hears BJ going on about something, he assumes the listening party is Benjamin “Hawkeye” Pierce and sighs, pausing just beyond the showers proper, just inside the door. He can distract them with a drawled, condescending, “ _ Gentlemen _ ,” if he wishes, turn their ire on him so that they can settle back into whatever it is that they have with each other, but he’s worn out. 

But the argument isn’t between Hunnicutt and Pierce, after all. The raised voice belongs - wonder of wonders - frantic and angry and unyielding - to their gentle little Corporal: Maxwell Q. Klinger. 

“Anything else you want, sir,” he’s saying to BJ - and his voice is  _ cold _ . Charles smirks, amused. He hadn’t known Max was capable. “When he deserves it, sir. I know he does, sometimes.”

“He’s cruel, Klinger. To  _ you _ most of the time. What are you doing standing up for him?” Beneath this Charles can hear a clear threat. Something in BJ’s tone is being employed to remind Max that he’s an officer, that he can strip the stripes right off his sleeves if he keeps it up. 

“Just leave it alone, sir. Just that one thing.” 

Charles knows Max well enough to know that “sir,” from the slender, pretty, young man means “I am being respectful of your rank, but I am decidedly unimpressed with you,” and he thinks BJ knows it, too. 

“Fine.” BJ is grudging. “But tell me why. What do you care about Winchester’s looks? His weight?”

Charles goes cold, his stomach bottoming out. What is this? It’s true that his tentmates do seem to enjoy these things as a theme on which to rag him, but why should Klinger notice? Or  _ care _ ? 

Klinger shuffles a moment, looking to hedge, and his head is down, jaw tight, when he says, “You don’t see it, maybe, sir, because maybe it never happened to you. But somebody, somewhere along the line, hurt him real bad about his looks. I’m tryin’ ta fix it up a little,”  _ to heal him up _ , “and you’re messing up my work, you and Captain Pierce.”

“Klinger, he doesn’t even  _ like _ you.” 

Charles hears the sharp breath Max draws in, knows  _ that _ hurt him - BJ’s way, he thinks, of paying back all that “sir” stuff. “I know that, sir. And if you’re wantin’ to hurt somebody ‘cause I spoiled your fun, here ya go. I think the Major’s beautiful, okay? And if I ever get the chance to have him spread out over top of me, I want him just like he is now - got it? So you leave him alone about his looks and his weight, okay?” 

BJ doesn’t agree, but he stalks off, leaving Max to sigh, to sink down, pale, on the wooden bench - thinking he’s won a sliver of peace back for a man that he loves, a man who will never know what he’s done - and wouldn’t want him if he knew how he felt. 

***

Max is a small bundle in an army cot, twitching faintly as he dreams. Charles leans back against the door to close it with his shoulders, then pauses with his hands in his pockets to observe the sleeping man in the orange glow of a rather weak stove. Then he leaves his boots at the door, crosses the tent, careful of any pins that may be littering the floor. 

Max does not stir as he enters the cot (though it creaks under its new burden) - and Charles is exquisitely gentle as he takes him into his arms. Long lashes beat on sleep-soft cheeks as Max awakens. He starts, at first, but Charles smiles. “It is a wickedly cold night, my dear girl. I thought you might welcome the warmth.”

Charles has always despaired of his body - wished himself smaller to avoid intimidating others, wished himself thinner and more shapely... but tonight he is grateful to be both big and tall, because the height and broadness of him make a fine blanket for the smaller man beneath him. 

Max gapes up at him, mouth wide, but he tries to get the covers around them both, which Charles finds charmingly courteous and accepts as a welcome. As Charles sinks over him, Max fails to ward off a sigh of contentment. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, Major,” he says, trying to find a warm pocket for his chilled fingers. “But it’s sure nice of you!” 

Charles surprises him again by stroking his cheek. “The truth is, pretty Maxwell, I overheard you defending me to Captain Hunnicutt. No one has ever come to my defense in such a brave, sweet way - but I had rather you had spoken your feelings to  _ me _ than to him.” 

“I didn’t think you’d want to know about them, sir.”

Charles tips his chin up, caressing his face. “I feared that. Maxwell, I am sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making you think that I did not care for you. I said cruel things when I arrived here, but you should know that you changed my mind very quickly with your kindness and your smile and your beauty.”

“You... you think I’m pretty?” 

“Darling, anyone who thinks otherwise is blind.”

Max grips his wrist. “I don’t care about anyone else, though.” 

“Ah, then, yes. I find you singularly lovely in male attire, in feminine dress - even fatigues fail to disguise the exquisite lines of your form. And if it is not too bold to say so, you feel quite as wonderful as you appear.” 

Max stretches to feel more of the man above him. He wants the Major to make all of this real with a kiss, but he’s not sure how to ask. Deciding he might do better to give, he leans up and kisses the Major’s forehead with a gentleness that reminds Charles of his sister and nearly makes him tear up. He closes his eyes to savor this small gesture. When he opens them, it is to find that small, tender mouth with his own. 

Max has rarely been kissed; he decides right off that this must be some kind of “high class” kissing - because it’s doing something to the pit of his stomach, to the pulse in his throat, even to his toes. It goes on for what must be hours, he thinks, simultaneously exciting and soothing him until he falls back, breathless, hands running over Charles’ back to ask, “Mmmm, Major?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“You think you’d ever want to have sex with me sometime?” 

“What is it that you imagine is occurring now, Max?”

“You being sweet, I think. But I wouldn’t know for sure. Nobody’s ever taken me to bed before.” 

The night hides the rush of blood that comes to the Major’s face - and he manages to steady himself by digging his hand into the mattress rather than gripping a slim shoulder. He clears his throat. “My dear... I had understood you to be married.” 

“Uh-huh. I wore white - you saw the photos.” They were a camp treasure and in them Max looked quite lovely. 

“I thought that in service of your escape attempts.”

“Nope. You don’t mind, do you? Showing me?” 

_ Mind? That we shall be forever linked through this? No, pet, I do not believe that I do _ . “I ... Maxwell, I would be most pleased to do so - but are you sure it should be me? There may be other, fairer forms as eager to guide you.” 

“I don’t want them.” His dark eyes are solemn. “I know you can’t  _ keep _ me or anything, Major. Don’t worry. I know it’s just for here. But I want it to be you.” 

“It will not be just for here, Maxwell, unless you wish it so. I am not given to trysts.”

Max’s face is scrunched up in confusion. “You mean you came here to my tent to keep me warm and kiss me... and you’ll keep doing it?”

“Yes. If you like.” 

Max nods - excited and eager - then decides there is something he’d like very much. “Can I... Can I unbutton your shirt so I can feel you better, Major?” 

“Yes - if you will call me by name.”

Max surprises him by going first for the lowest button. He undoes it one-handed to leave his other hand free to rest on the Major’s stomach. Charles attempts to draw in this part of himself, but Max keeps his palm flat against him to chase the softness - and when he gets Charles loose enough, he pushes his own night shirt up so that they can be skin to skin. 

“Perfect,” he declares, pushing the shirt back from handsome shoulders and well-muscled arms. He leans up to kiss such skin as he can reach, says, “You’re so good to look at, to touch. Charles.” His name comes last, timid, new - fresh as snowfall. 

“That’s my girl.” It makes Max shiver with pleasure. “You may touch me anywhere and any way you wish.”

“Will you… would you press down on me?” He trails his fingers down Charles’ long frame to indicate how he means. 

It’s an easy thing, but Max has obviously thought about it before, because he keens - a high, wild sound - and lifts his hips. They are matched stomach to stomach, groin to groin. Charles doesn’t care for his stomach, his thighs, but Max murmurs sweetly into his ear, telling him how soft he finds his skin, how warm and perfect, how he can’t get enough - and Charles can tell by feel that he’s being honest, even through clothes. Max strokes his back. 

“This… this is real nice.” He rocks his hips. “Mmm. You’re so big, Major.”

Charles bears down on him, lets him feel more. “And  _ you _ are so sweet, pet.”

“You don’t mind this? Goin’ slow like this?”

“I want to please you, Maxwell. And anyone who could  _ mind _ having you  _ like this _ … that individual would be a fool.” 

“Just keep doin’ what you’re doin’, Major baby.” He leans up to kiss him, admits that Charles has him leaking, aching. 

“Mmm.” Charles slips a hand beneath his waistband to verify this claim, smears a line up Maxwell’s belly. 

Max blushes, but he pushes his clothes up more so he can feel more of Charles, his fingers tracing spirals over his chest, his back. He squeezes his hips, slips his hands in his back pockets to squeeze there, too. He spreads his legs apart to wrap them around Charles, holding him closer. “Lemme take your pants off, Major.” 

“My dear girl, allow me. Let me treasure you as you deserve.”

Max watches him with wide eyes as the Major removes his trousers, his silken boxers. He makes soft little noises of encouragement. 

“Do not be afraid,” Charles tells him, charmed by his quick breaths, his parted lips. “I would never hurt you.” 

Max isn’t frightened - just nervous that he might do something wrong or embarrassing- and achingly eager. When Charles folds his pants down to kiss his hips, he writhes, needing more. The Major chuckles, and for the first time Max realizes how close the man’s mouth is to the heat between his legs. “I dunno how to ask you this, but,”

“Anything you wish, pet.” 

“Would you - would you put your mouth on me?”

“Oh, yes.” He licks his lips then and sees Max tense, propped up on his elbows to watch. What delights him is that Maxwell is watching him with obvious desire, eyes moving over his body in admiration. 

The effect is nothing short of miraculous as Charles finds that he forgets his deficits. He forgets to hold in his stomach or to wish more muscles into his chest. With Max looking at him that way, he is beyond content. 

_ I am in an army cot in some horrid backwater. I am surrounded by death and lice and dysentery and a garbage dump so fetid that it has changed the migratory pattern of birds… and yet I am so very, very happy.  _

Max reaches for him as Charles works to learn just how he likes to be touched; his Corporal runs loving fingers over his sides, relishing him. It is nearly worship - and more acceptance than Charles recalls having from anyone else. “Look at you,” Max murmurs. He sounds drugged on touch, Charles thinks, if such a thing is possible, and he slow-drags the pads of his fingers over his thighs, his waist - and Charles surprises them both by rocking forward into his touch. “Oh, baby, com’mere,” Max beckons. “Come down here.” 

It may be the selfish choice, but Charles wants to feel more of his young love and he enters his arms as Max rises up, kissing anything he can reach. “You’re so beautiful, Charles. Feel so good up ‘gainst me. Mmm. Been imagining it, you know.”

This confession makes the Major’s hips kick against his. “Have - have you?” 

“‘Course. Figured you kinda got ta everybody that way. Being so tall an’ so pretty.” He doesn’t quite have the words to tell Charles he’s like a young god, but he tangles his fingers in those curls he loves - so fine, so different from his own locks - and says the next best thing. “You oughta have a crown right here. ‘S like you wear an invisible one anyway.”

“Oh, pet - if there is to be any kneeling, I assure you that I will be the one bowed before  _ you _ .” 

Max feels the other man’s stomach shivering, clenching. “Rather have you over me like this,” he admits, holding his hips down. “Just like this.”

The soft sigh he gives then manages to speak to something deep within the proud Major, some part of himself left lying neglected. He utters a short, sharp cry, “My God, Maxwell!” and one hand digs into a slight shoulder, seeking a place to anchor itself. He hears Max from far away, calling him gorgeous.

“That’s it, baby,” he rocks against him, slow and perfect, stepping him down. “So good, Charles. That’s so good.”

He can’t  _ remember  _ the last time his name and praise existed together; it renders him helpless with gratitude, shaky.  _ How can you exist? How can you draw pleasure from my make and my build - and my clumsiest fumblings alike!?  _

Fingers trembling, Charles reaches between them, slicks his lover with the evidence of his own release - and begs for the right to draw him over the edge. “Let me make you feel good, beautiful. Let me see you become entirely mine.” 

“Please. Please, Major baby… those big hands of yours… jus’ like that.” 

“Anything you wish, dear girl. Anything you desire. Only show me that you belong to me.” 

“‘M yours,” Max promises. “Think I always was.”

“Show me.” It’s his command voice - the one he uses in surgery when time is of the essence, when he’s fighting to win a life back.

Max shakes, whines. “Major…”

“ _ Now _ , Corporal girl.”

That voice - Atlantic and commanding and combining the two parts of him that so confound everyone else… it’s beyond effective, and he bends neatly in half, pulls Charles to him to feel the strength of him, to feel him solid and real. 

Afterwards, cleaned up and wrapped in covers, Maxwell refuses to relinquish his spot, lazily kissing his neck and shoulders. “Pet,” Winchester scolds. “You cannot sleep  _ beneath _ me. I will crush you.” 

“‘M awake, Major baby - an’ I think you just saw you won’t. Been watching you so long - I have a lotta touching to catch up on.” 

Charles hauls him onto his chest anyway, kisses his nose. “Thank you, Max, for wanting me as I am.” 

“Who wouldn’t?” He looks down on him with loving eyes. 

_ You really believe that. You truly do.  _

“You - Max, you do think I am, ah, worth looking at?”

Max cups his jaw, kisses the words from his lips. “‘S ‘bout all I ever do. Even when you’re not around, I look at you in my mind. Helps me not to be so afraid, that there’s something as pretty as you in this awful place.” He kisses his fingers. “Every inch of you’s just right.”

Charles knows that it will take time to believe this - but he can mount no argument against those eyes, that mouth, or the warm contentment that shows in Max’s body as he snuggles close, one hand tucked warm against his stomach. 

As if sensing those old hurts, old struggles, Max says, eyes closed, voice sleepy, “You know how people have that saying? Worth your weight in gold?”

“I do.”

“Mmm. Well, you are, Major. But more than that - you’re worth bein’  _ here _ . Livin’ through all this. Being scared and cold and having to see things I never wanted to. I’d go back through every minute of it if it meant my hands were gonna end up full of you.” 

Charles is rarely speechless, but he can summon nothing worthy for a long moment. “I shall try, Maxwell, to make up for every awful moment here - and when we go home, I shall make sure to enter your arms at the close of each day.”

It is the sort of promise worth living for, Max thinks, and he drifts off dreaming of the life they will have back home, the clothing he will create to suit and honor the body pressed to his. He smiles in his sleep. 

End! 


End file.
